Obsessed
by hadejayden
Summary: Moriarty/Sherlock. Moriarty tries to convince himself he's not obsessed with Sherlock by tying him up and gagging him. Little bit of light grinding may ensue.


Jim Moriarty wasn't obsessed.

He would tell himself this, time and time again, when he found himself picking up the phone to text Sherlock for the fourth time that week. He would assure himself of this fact, while he stood motionless in the shadows outside the flat on Baker Street, practically aching for a glimpse of Sherlock through the second floor window. He would convince himself, over and over, as he began to fall behind on consultations, that it was alright to have Sherlock constantly within his thoughts.

Wasn't it okay that this man seemed to exist within every fibre of his being since the day they had first met?

Of course it was.

It was fine. Moriarty was fine.

And he wasn't obsessed.

Satisfied that he had successfully confirmed this small matter yet again, he raised his head from his hands and peered across the lengthy, dim space. Moriarty's lips erupted into a sickeningly gleeful smile as he locked eyes with the man bound to a small chair in front of him. He stood abruptly to his feet, and began slowly pacing forward. An airy giggle filled the room.

"Ooh Sherlock, how nice of you to come," he whispered theatrically, his eyes wide, almost glistening with excitement. "You have no idea how delighted I am to finally spend some quality time with you. I just can't get you out of my head!"

Coming to a halt in front of the trapped form beneath him, Moriarty paused to chuckle to himself.

"Just like the song. You know it don't you? Of course you do…"

He began humming softly – a sound which could have been almost comforting, if it hadn't have been for the crumbled fabric of the gag he was now readjusting, and the thick rope around the thin wrists he was now tightening.

Hands struggled beneath the delicate touch of his fingertips.

Moriarty was still humming.

Slowly making his way back around to face his prisoner - his Sherlock - he slipped off his jacket and laid it in a neat pile on the sooty remains of what may have once passed as a wooden floor.

When they were facing each other again, Moriarty sighed.

"You know I don't mind if you struggle, darling. It's much sexier"

Gripping the back of the chair, he proceeded to straddle the man he had lured here only an hour ago. He was not as submissive as Moriarty had hoped he would have been, and he was not as compliant as he would have liked. But, that was okay. That was more than okay.

Moriarty's slim legs locked themselves into position around the thighs that bucked and squirmed beneath him. He began to grind his hips slowly; for his own amusement, if nothing else.

"Shhh," he whispered, running his hand through the dark curls he had always longed to touch. They were matted and greasy with sweat.

He let his fingers trail down the sharply defined features of the face that had become a constant reminder of the one thing he was missing in his life – someone like him.

The usual piercing, perceptiveness of those penetratingly blue eyes had been replaced with a gaze that Moriarty immediately recognised as unmitigated fear. He frowned and yanked the filthy gag away with one swift pull. A groan of withering agony filled the room.

"Please… Please…"

Moriarty drew a finger to his lips and shook his head.

"Don't be scared Sherlock… It's just little old me"

He allowed this external terror to saturate his senses. It consumed him and he recalled why he had gotten into this business in the first place.

Resting his palm on the back of a sweat drenched neck, Moriarty placed his lips tenderly on his captive's. They were raw, and the taste of salt dominated his palette as he allowed his tongue to creep beyond the confines of his own mouth, and into that of the form trapped under him, who had become rigid beneath his touch.

Closing his eyes, he thought of Sherlock's touch on his own body. The hands that would explore every inch of his skin, tug at his hair, caressing him. He imagined that Sherlock would kiss him back, that his mouth would move against his own, and that his tongue would not have to slide carefully over another with no response. He pretended that he had not tied anyone up, that this was not involuntary on anybody's part, and that he could not feel the tears falling silently between them, soaking both his cheeks with a dismal dampness.

Allowing his tongue one final sweep of the mouth he had conquered, Moriarty broke the kiss and pressed his forehead against the perspiration sodden one before him.

"You know… When I close my eyes, it's like you're really him…"

He pulled back and examined the man before him. Tear stained and petrified, frozen in abject horror, this face was not unlike the hundreds he saw every single day. It was the face of a man who had been senseless enough to accompany somebody to an abandoned house in the middle of the day.

It was not the face of Sherlock Holmes. Although for Moriarty, it had been. If just for a few seconds.

In one swift motion, he pulled the gun from the waistband of his trousers and planted a bullet in the man's skull.

There was a rough jolt, and then all was still.

Clambering off the body, Moriarty proceeded to reclaim his jacket from the floor. He wiped his face and took one last look at the poor fellow who had been so unfortunate to cross his path today, before leaving the building.

He knew that in a couple of hours Sherlock would be called to the scene. Smiling at the thought, he slipped his phone out of his pocket and began typing.

'Wait until you see what I've left you. X'

No, he definitely wasn't obsessed.


End file.
